


Statuesque

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, No Dialogue, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur witnesses Lindir serving Elrond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Statuesque

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s late by the time he decides to pursue it. Of course, the minute his flute’s taken away, the other dwarves want to commiserate with him, and that turns into a full-fledged fest of the usual complaints about all things Elven. Bofur joins in, if not as ferociously as the rest. His main concern is his flute, which he was using to liven the place up, _not_ disturb the peace, as the elves claim. He’s not a child, and he doesn’t appreciate his instruments being confiscated. So when the other dwarves tuck into their makeshift cots, Bofur heads off to actually do something about it. 

Unfortunately, he knows very little of Rivendell beyond where to go for food. All of the halls he passes are empty, so Bofur’s left to follow his own meager sense of direction and wonder if he should’ve brought Nori along. 

He’s been wandering for entirely too long when he finally hears the sound of another living being. The gentle rush of the waterfalls is always lingering in the background, but when he stops his own footsteps and listens hard, he’s sure he hears a hitch of breath. Glancing across the tall corridor of polished floors and gleaming columns, he picks the way he thinks is most likely. Another bit of wandering, and he catches another soft sound. He moves faster, sure he’s onto something, and then he turns the bend and there’s a courtyard in the distance, bracketed by towering stone arches. 

He takes a few steps down the hall—quiet, because he owes it to Thorin to be diplomatic and not ruin their relations by storming in uninvited—before he recognizes the elf at the end. Lord Elrond, otherwise known as simply _Elrond_ to the dwarves, is perched on the edge of a large, round fountain, depicting a prancing deer. Tiny cascades of water spring out of each of the points of its antlers, rushing down the stone figure and back into the shimmering basin. Elrond is balanced just on the stone brim, his long hair parted gracefully over his shoulders. 

Bofur’s nearly there when he realizes that Elrond’s not alone. Between the voluminous drapes of his robes, another elf is kneeling, tucked up close between Elrond’s spread legs. 

Bofur’s steps falter. Now that he’s close enough to see what’s happening, he can understand why they don’t notice him. Elrond’s eyes are closed, his expression unguarded and blissful, his hands relaxed around the fountain’s edge. The light breeze plays with a few stray strands of his hair, and the entire scene has a powerfully peaceful nature, so much so that Bofur’s tempted to leave—he doesn’t belong in such beauty. Even if elves have never been his thing, he can’t deny their attraction in the throes of pleasure. 

Elrond is clearly receiving pleasure. The elf kneeling at his feet is mostly obscured by the hump of his thigh, but Bofur thinks he recognizes Lindir—the right hand who greeted the dwarves on their arrival and has provided most of their accommodations. His head is bobbing gently up and down, his lashes closed against his cheeks. Bofur has to lift up on his toes to see the pink curve of his lips stretched wide around Elrond’s hard cock, pulled neatly out of the fold in his robes. For a split second, Bofur stays hovering, transfixed. Then he slinks sideways without even thinking, pressing up behind a column.

He knows, of course, that it isn’t nice to pry. But they’re hardly hidden, out in a public garden like this. A part of Bofur is strangely impressed. He didn’t know elves were so... _fun_.

This can’t be the first time they’ve done this. Lindir’s pace is entirely leisurely, and though Elrond is clearly enjoying his servant’s ministrations, he’s hardly overcome. His breathing is even, perhaps a little heavy, and though it catches here and there, he makes none of the loud, lewd noises Bofur would if he had an elf between his legs. Lindir has a similar calmness; it sounds as though he’s humming, very faintly, around his master’s shaft, but of course, the sound is muffled. His cheeks occasionally hollow out around Elrond’s girth, his mouth smoothly sliding all the way from base to tip every time with a practiced skill. His cheeks are brushed with a light pink, but otherwise there is no shame or embarrassment on his pretty face. 

Then Elrond’s leg shifts, and Lindir pauses, his eyes flickering up through his long lashes. His pupils look dilated, and there’s a fog over them, a sense of _adoration_ on his face. It’s unmistakable. Bofur gets the distinct impression that he’s walked in on something more sacred, more intimate than he thought. Lindir’s feelings are all over his warm expression, though he doesn’t pull off. Nuzzled against the base of Elrond’s cock, he waits as Elrond adjusts positions. 

One of Elrond’s hands lands on Lindir’s head, sliding gently down to cup the back of his skull. Long fingers begin to thread in Lindir’s hair, brushing fondly through it, while Lindir lowers his gaze respectfully and returns to bobbing up and down. Elrond’s head tilts back. With his throat arched to the moonlight, his lips part, and he makes an almost imperceptible combination of moan and sigh. Lindir’s eyes fall closed again, and his eyebrows knit together in deep concentration. But he pops off the end a moment later, his tongue laving thickly over the bulbous head. His delicate fingers peel back some of the foreskin, and Lindir rolls his tongue around it before lapping hungrily at the slit. He worships his lord’s cock, but it’s obviously more than master and servant. Elrond’s head tilts to peer down at him again, the hand still in his hair petting him softly.

Bofur should leave. He knows that. However public it is, this should be private, it’s too intimate, and Bofur feels distinctly unworthy as a witness. It takes him a few moments to gather his resolve, because the sight is so alluring, so intoxicating, and of course his body’s responding—he’s already shamefully hard. But he still resolves to leave.

The second he tries to turn away, Elrond makes a tiny, desperate gasp, and his body goes rigid, chest arching forward. Lindir nuzzles down tightly to the base, and Bofur can hear the vulgar sounds of swallowing too much liquid. Lindir makes his own needy, erotic noises. He’s clearly enjoying his master’s seed, and he swallows it all without complaint, sucking down more and more. 

When Elrond finally slumps, the tension dissipating, Lindir makes a contented noise but doesn’t pull away. He stays with his mouth impaled on his lord’s spent cock, his cheek resting against Elrond’s thigh. Elrond resumes stroking through his long hair. The hand draws around Lindir’s face a moment later, fingers cupping beneath his chin and thumb brushing his bulging cheek. Elrond’s eyes are thick with affection, but when Lindir’s meet them, they turn hotter. Something very intense passes between them, and then Elrond’s hand falls away, pulling back to the brim of the fountain, where he steadies himself all over again.

And Lindir returns to bobbing up and down and suckling. Bofur, completely hard, is initially shocked. Then he thinks of it and it makes _sense_ , and he wonders why he never assumed before that the long-lived nature of elves would spill over into other things. Of course they like to lounge about and enjoy life’s pleasures, and of course that would extend to sex. As far as Bofur knows, Elrond is prone to making love to Lindir’s lips and body for days on end, much to Lindir’s evident delight. 

But of course, witnessing all of that is none of Bofur’s business, and he finally forces himself to turn away from the courtyard. He rushes quickly down the hall before any of the noises can call him back. He’ll have to talk to them tomorrow... if they’re available.

Right now, he’s got much bigger problems on his mind than his flute.


End file.
